Innocence and Passion
by Kyrie74
Summary: Christine abruptly abandons her marriage to Raoul de Chagny and returns to the depths of the Opera Populaire. But will a bitter, betrayed Angel welcome her there? PG-13 for now...reviews welcome.
1. Mourning For An Angel

Chapter One - Mourning For An Angel

Christine's hand trailed lightly along the wooden banister as she made her way up the stairs to the little hall above the servants' quarters. At the far end of the drab plastered passage, she pushed open a door and stepped out onto the roof of her husband's home.

The sun was just setting over Paris. Christine sat carefully on the parapet and looked out of the city. From here, she could just see the light gilding the newly-restored dome of the Opera Populaire.

It was hard to believe that it had been almost a year since the performance of _Don Juan Triumphant _and the terrible events that had followed the Phantom's opera. It was almost seven months since her wedding.

The theatre had been restored and, two months ago, the new season had begun. In all that time, Christine had not gone back.

She wondered what had become of _him_. No one had been able to tell her how he died, but everyone was certain that he had. His body was never found.

She had heard, though, rumors that the new season was a haunted one. That a true ghost haunted the theatre now. _His_ ghost, they said. Notes continued to harass the managers, but they lacked the lilting arrogance of the old Opera Ghost. Mysterious sounds terrified the unwary. A voice was heard echoing in lonely corridors, the sound of heavy steps startled the silence at unexpected time.

Was it truly the Phantom, Christine wondered. Had he survived and did he once again hide in the shadows of his theatre? She would have given the world to know.

Who could tell her? When she married Raoul, she severed all ties to the Opera Populaire. She had kept contact with Madame Giry and Meg, but they were in London now. Meg was already a prima ballerina on the London stage. Madame seemed to wish to forget her role in the tragedy of the Opera Ghost.

"Dearest, what are you doing up here again?"

Christine turned to see her husband emerging from the little door. In the dying light, he looked so very handsome, the breeze ruffling his hair and the darkening sky reflected in his eyes.

"I suppose," she said with a light laugh, "that you will now treat me to another lecture how it isn't quite right for the wife of a Vicomte to perch on the edge of the roof like a common maid."

"No lecture this evening, love. It's just that Theodore and Madeleine will be arriving soon. You'd better dress for dinner."

Ah, yes, Raoul was forever inviting his old friends to dine with them. Always escorting her to lovely parties. Each day, however, she found that she increasingly treasured those rare hours of solitude.

Returning to her room, she found her maid had already laid out her gown. It was a lovely dress but, like all of her clothes, it was black.

On the day before her wedding, she told Raoul that she wished to wear black for one year. To mourn for her Angel of Music. He had not been pleased by this.

"Please, Raoul, let me do this," she'd said to him, "whatever harm he may have caused, I will always remember that he was my teacher. He gave me the gift of music and I could not repay him. Please, this is the only thing I will ever ask of you."

* * *

I suppose this is a good time to add the usual disclaimer. I don't own the characters, etc...I just do this because I enjoy it. Like my previous efforts, this is based mostly on the 2004 ALW film. Reviews always welcome! 


	2. One Word

My apologies to all the diehard E/C shippers...this chapter is needed. This is still PG-13 (as far as I am concerned), but later chapters will most likely be R. Read on and enjoy.

* * *

Chapter Two - One Word

Later that night, she lay alone in her bed. She knew that, at any moment, she would hear Raoul's step in the hall. And, suddenly, she dreaded that.

She knew now that she did not love him. She was fond of him and would always care for him. But that was not love.

She had known what it was to love for those brief moments when she had looked up into the eyes of her Angel and seem tears in them.

As she waited there in the lamplit room, her mind drifted to that evening's dinner with Theodore and Madeleine. Theodore de Jarret was one of Raoul's oldest friends and, like Raoul, recently married to the raven-haired Madeleine Lusignan. After dinner, Madeleine had asked Christine to sing for them.

Christine had so few chances to sing and had lost the desire to. But she smiled and, to oblige her guest, seated herself at the piano. She began with a light aria, one free of any memories. Her second song, however, seemed to come unbidden. It was one of _his_...Aminta's solo from the last act of _Don Juan Triumphant_. She had never sung the song on stage that terrible night.

_And two souls do meet  
Beyond forever, beyond eternity._

_Only in your embrace in my freedom found._

She looked up to see Raoul's handsome face tighten into a frown. He had seen the libretto of the Phantom's opera and, no doubt, he recognized the lyrics.

She cut the song short and ended her little recital with a new song she'd heard in one of the fashionable cafes Raoul often brought her to.

Now, she wondered what made her thing of that song. It seemed she thought more and more of her Angel these days. The more attentions her husband showered on her, the more she dreamed of that lost Angel, of that night when he surrounded her with candles as countless as stars and gave her music like she'd never known.

She heard Raoul's step in the hall and the door opened. He extinguished the lamp and took her in his arms.

"You looked so beautiful, my Little Lotte," he said, as he slipped his hands beneath her nightgown.

"But," he continued in a husky voice against her neck, "I wish you'd leave off this mourning. People think it's odd, a happy new bride wearing black."

"Raoul, please, don't ask me that again. You promised me this."

He said nothing else to her as he slid inside her. As her body dutifully responded to her husband, she whispered a single word...

_Angel._


	3. Are The Stories True?

_I don't usually do dedications, but this one is for Kristal from PFN - thanks! _

* * *

Chapter Three - Are The Stories True?

The next morning, Christine awoke alone. Most mornings, she found herself still caught in her husband's arms.

She pushed off the coverlet and, tugging her twisted nightgown into place, stood before the floor-length mirror. She laid her palms against the cold, slick glass. If only she could close her eyes and will her Angel to return to her. If only she could open them again and see his white mask before her.

"Oh, Angel, Angel, forgive me."

She stepped back a little and stared at her reflection. She was no longer the frightened chorus girl caught between darkness and light. Lying in Raoul's embrace, she had reached the point of no return.

She opened the armoire and found a simple gown. She dressed quickly without the help of her maid. She pulled her hair into a loose knot and sat down at the little writing table in the corner. She took out a single sheet of fine, cream-hued paper. The note was short and, when she finished it, she removed the heavy gold wedding ring from her finger. She laid the note and the ring on the bed.

Drawing a hooded cloak over the gown, she quietly left her husband's house.

-

Twenty minutes later, she stood before the doors of the Opera Populaire and took a single deep breath.

"Can I do this," she whispered aloud.

She walked up the steps and a footman held the door open for her. The foyer looked the way it had before the night of the fire. She could almost hear the music of that last Masquerade drifting through the place.

"Mademoiselle Daae!"

She turned and saw Monsiuer Andre hurrying across the foyer towards her.

"I mean, Madame le Vic..." he began, making an excited bow and taking her gloved hand.

"Please, Monsieur, call me Christine. We are old friends."

"Of course, Madame, I mean Christine. What brings you here? What can I do you for you. I trust your husband is well. We are so sorry that you declined our invitation to attend our opening gala, but we do understand why the two of you decided..."

What invitation? Christine could not recall any invitation to the gala. Had Raoul received it and said nothing to her about it?

She forced herself to smile at the effusive manager.

"The Vicomte is well. You must promise not to laugh, but I am just a little homesick for this place. It was the palace of my childhood and I wanted to see it again. Would you mind very much if I walked around for a time?"

"Of course not, Christine. Feel free to go where you'd like. I shall arrange for someone to escort you.

Christine shook her head.

"No escort, please," she said quickly, "I would rather just wander alone for a time. But I have heard the rumors. That the theater is truly haunted now. Are the stories true?"

Andre stared down at his gleaming shoes.

"I am afraid they are true. Everyone here, it seems, has heard certain sounds, caught glimpses of shadows where there should be none."

He did not mention the notes. Their content had not changed...the salary, criticisms of the performances. But their tone had. They were blunt and devoid of the distinctive mockery that had always been typical. The fact that the author was presumably dead added to the discomfort of the managers.

Still, with both Christine Daae and La Carlotta gone from the Opera House, the demands regarding the casting were much more reasonable

"And the old dressing room," Christine asked him, "is it still in use?"

"No, it's been empty since you left us."

-

Christine stood alone in the dressing room. It had been Carlotta's, then hers. It was here that she found the Angel's first rose, here that he had first come to her through the great mirror.

She pressed her hands to the glass...

And found it would not move.


	4. Please, Monsieur

Chapter Four - Please, Monsieur

Christine pushed at the mirror again and again, but it would not give way.

She forced herself not to pound on the glass, not to scream in frustration. Did she have the strength to shatter the glass. And with what? Everything had been removed from the room, but for the dust-covered dressing table and the sofa.

And what would she find beyond the mirror now?

"He sealed that passageway off, Madame."

Christine turned to see Monsieur Reyer standing in the doorway.

"What do you mean, Monsieur, what do you know?"

The old music director closed the door behind him as he answered.

"He thought you would never return. He no longer needed this mirror and sealed off the passage."

"How do you know this?"

"I have known about the Opera Ghost for some years. I don't pretend to know as much as Therese," he answered, referring to Madame Giry be her first name out of habit, "but when she left for England with her daughter, I became his only contact with this world."

Christine was almost afraid to hear the answer to her next question.

"Tell me, please, how is he?"

"How is he," Reyer answered with an odd shrug, "he is as well as can be expected, given the circumstances. I don't know the details of that night, Madame, nor do I ask to know them. At my age, knowledge like that can be a burden."

"I want to see him, Monsieur."

Reyer drew a small iron key from his waistcoat pocket. He held it in the palm of his hand, but did not offer it to her.

"I don't know if it would be wise for me to tell you, Madame."

"Please, Monsieur. I beg you."

He pressed the key into her hand.

"Go down to the chapel. Open the little door to the left of the steps. Follow that passage way and you will find a second door. This key will open it. From there, you should have no difficulty in finding your way. Make sure you take a candle, though, the way from there down is very dark."


	5. Why Is She Here?

Chapter Five - Why Is She Here?

Christine hurried along familiar hallways. Here, less attention had been given during the restoration. Traces of the fire damage were still visible on the walls.

The skirt of Christine's dress whispered against the dingy plaster. And, for a time, it seemed a another sound answered it, a heavy rustle beyond the partitions.

Christine did not hear the sound as she turned down the steps towards the chapel.

Pausing at the chapel door, Christine saw that it had not been repaired at all. Closing her eyes, she remembered a lonely little girl who'd knelt there, praying by the light of a single candle, waiting for the Angel promised by her father.

She turned and saw the door Monsieur Reyer has spoken of. It was indeed small, a low and narrow entrance into an equally low and narrow passage. A long-forgotten service corridor, no doubt. The old theatre was full of them. No one knew them all. No one except, perhaps the Opera Ghost.

The first cramped tunnel was short, the one beyond the locked door seemed to descend forever. Holding her candle, Christine felt as almost if Hell itself must lie at the far end. Assuming there was an end.

And what lay at the end of this descent? Something in Monsieur Reyer's voice had unnerved her.

_As well as can be expected..._

Finally, she found herself facing a thick curtain. She cautiously raised it. She stepped through a large gilt frame and found herself in the strange grottos beside the lake.

She felt as if she had come home.

Little had changed. The pipe organ, the black swan bed with its crimson velvet covers, the candelabra, the endless piles of books and musical scores were still there.

Gone, however, were the delicate miniatures of opera sets, gone were the dozens of sketches of herself.

Only one picture remained. A small watercolor of a young girl in white, an innocent asleep in a sea of crimson velvet.

"Angel?"

Christine heard her own voice echo back across the lake. There was no answer, no sign of the man she sought.

She made her way up the steps to the organ. A half-finished composition lay open on the music rack. An uncapped bottle of red ink stood next to it. On a small table near the organ, she saw a cloud of sheer white material. Her wedding veil...

In the bedroom, she saw the music box on a low stand near the bed.

That was her last memory of him...he had been holding that music box...looking up at her. She could still see the tears on his face, the hope in his eyes when she came back to give him the ring...something to remember her by.

She pressed her hands to her face, fighting back her own tears.

"I should have stayed. I should never have left him."

She sat down on the edge of the bed. She would wait for her Angel's return.

-

He stared with disbelief at the woman asleep in his bed. A single lock of her dark hair lay across the curve of her cheek. Her lips were slightly parted, her body enveloped in black.

_Christine..._

He reached down to pull the covers over her, but then he drew back.

_What does she want with me? Why has she returned? She in mourning...is her precious Vicomte dead?_

No. He thought calmly, even he would have heard if some tragedy had befallen Raoul de Chagny.

He wanted to reach out to her, to wake her and take her in his arms.

_Why is she here? What does she want from this Angel in Hell?_

He turned away, lowering the lace curtain as he left. He did not want to see her.


	6. How Many Times Will You Betray Me?

Chapter Six - How Many Times Will You Betray Me?

It was a sharp pain that awakened Christine. She lay on her side in the velvet-draped bed and the whale-bone stays of her jabbed mercilessly into her side.

She rose slowly, wondering how she had let herself just drift off to sleep like that. Then she gasped at the sight of the black lace curtain. It has been lowered...her Angel was near.

As she drew up the veil, she listened for any sound of his presence. She heard the faint ripple of the lake against the stone steps, the hiss and flicker of the candles...and the harsh, quick rasp of a pen against paper.

He was there, just as he had been that first morning, seated at the organ. His back was turned, he was leaning over the work before him.

Surely he heard her steps as she went up to him. But he did not turn. The only acknowledgment he gave of her presence was a tense straightening of his shoulders beneath the black velvet robe.

"Angel," she whispered as she came up behind him and laid her hand on his shoulder. Still, he did not look at her.

"Good evening, _Madame de Chagny_," he said as he reached up and gently pushed her hand from him.

His indifference numbed her. All these months, his words echoed in her, drowning out her own heartbeat...

_Christine, I love you._

"Angel, I have come home."

"Home for you, _Madame_," he said quietly, "is in number 57, Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honore."

Christine walked around the organ to face him. There was a new harshness to his face, one that she did not remember. She had not seen it before, even in his anger. His lips were tight, a thin line creased between his brows.

Half his face was still covered by a mask, the mask that had never stopped haunting her.

When he looked up at her at last, there was no emotion in his eyes. But his hand gripped the amber glass pen until his knuckles were as white as his mask.

"Angel, please...will you listen to me?"

He did not answer her, but a sharp crack spoke for him as the pen shattered in his grip. He swore to himself as a small, sharp piece of glass sliced into his palm.

In a second, Christine was on her knees beside him. Taking his hand, she dabbed at the blood with her handkerchief.

"Leave me...go back to your husband."

He closed his eyes as she tended to his hand. If he looked at her again, he might weaken, might forgive her the unending days and nights of loneliness she had condemned him to.

"I have no husband now."

"Is that the reason for the mourning attire, then? My condolences, but I've no time to comfort grieving widows."

"He is not dead. Angel, I have left him. I want to stay with you, to stay by your side forever."

He leapt to his feet and stared down at her. What did she expect from him now?

"Christine, how many times will you betray me?"


	7. To Taste Him Without Tears

Chapter Seven - To Taste Him Without Tears

His words seemed to lash across the small space between them, so brutal that she scrambled to her feet and stepped back from him.

"Angel, I never meant..."

He grabbed her by her shoulders, his voice was a biting whisper against her neck.

"The Angel of Music is dead and buried. You know that all too well. He died that night in the snow...on the roof. Now, there is only a ghost...a ghost named Erik."

"_Erik_, I never meant to hurt you. I was a foolish child, I didn't know my own heart until you sent me away. I have paid the price, living every day with my regrets.".

"How prettily you lie, Madame," he said, pushing her aside as if she meant no more to him than a bit of the heavy, faded velvet drapes that surrounded them.

"Did you," he continued, "use that particular talent on your husband in order to come here?"

"I have never lied to you," she retorted, keeping a sob barely in check as some of his bitterness seemed to seep into her heart, "I would have stayed with you. When I kissed you...it was my vow to you that I..."

She stopped...how could such mundane things as words explain what that kiss was, what promises had been intended, what desires were hidden it...

She stepped close to him, so close that their bodies almost touched. Before he could turn away from her again, she caught his face in her hands. She felts the heat of his flesh beneath one palm, the cool of his mask beneath the other.

Gently, she drew his face to hers and kissed him. All these months, she had longed for this, to feel his lips against hers, to taste him without tears.

But nothing had prepared her for this.

His hands tightened around her waist, the stays of her corset once again dug into her. She felt herself pushed back against the stone wall of the chamber, the rock grating against her shoulders as he responded to her kiss with a passion that bordered on fury.

His hands slid lower, pressing against her hips as his mouth burned her lips, her throat, the soft curve of her collarbone.

"Erik...Angel..." she whispered, wrapping her arms around his strong shoulders.

He was still against her, looking down into her eyes. He pulled his hands away from her abruptly.

Keeping her body pinned between the heat of his own and the chill of the wall, he reached up and tore off his mask.

"Is this what you want, Christine?"


	8. The Treason of Desire

Chapter Eight - The Treason of Desire

Christine gasped as he savagely tore off his mask. But it was not the sight of his twisted face that made her cry out, nor the black self-loathing she saw in his eyes. As he tossed the mask aside, he'd leaned hard against her, forcing the breath from her tense body.

He mistook her cry for one of revulsion and it goaded his anger beyond the point of mercy. His touch was brutally soft as he slipped his fingers beneath her loosened hair to caress the back of her neck.

"Is this what you want, Christine? Is this what you came for?"

Christine found she could not answer him, her voice was lost amid the tears, the pity, the desire beyond anything she had ever felt before.

She slipped her arms free and laid one hand against his chest. His velvet robe had fallen open and, beneath the warm silk of his shirt, she could feel his heart pounding...a counterpoint to her own racing pulse.

With her other hand, she reached out to touch his face, her slender fingers gently tracing the twists and ridges of his cheek and forehead.

He could almost hear her soul crying out for him as he shifted his weight against her body.

_How many times will you betray me?_

This time, though, the words were not meant for her, but for the ruins of his own soul.

He pulled her away from the wall and into his arms, his mouth on hers again. Her cloak fell to the floor as he lifted her into his arms.

This was, after all, what he had waited for. This is what he wanted, his beloved Christine in his arms at last.

He would try to forget, for this one night at least, that she was still the wife of the Viscount de Chagny. That she was no longer the innocent girl who followed him through the mirror, giving him her hand and her trust in the same moment.

She was clinging to him, her hands tangled in the silk and velvet of his clothes as his tongue traced the sweet curves of her lips.

He carried her to the bed and he sank down on it, drawing her with him so she rested against his chest for a moment, her limbs entangled with his.

_Christine, I love you...even as I cursed you every night...I never stopped loving you._

No...he would not let himself say those words again. Never. She would be his tonight, but she would never hear those words.

His hands trembled against her as he unfastened the buttons of her dress and the hooks of her corset. He wanted nothing more than to rest his ravaged face against the softness of her.

He turned slightly, letting her settle into the velvet cushions. The scarlet hue made her seem so pale, so delicate...so like the sleeping girl in the one portrait he had spared, the one picture he could not bear to destroy.

So like that girl...but so different, too.

And there were memories he could not blot from his mind. Even if he gave in to the treason of desire now, there was one image he would never erase...

He pushed himself away and stood. Catching her wrist, he pulled her from the bed. He seized her cloak for the floor and threw it towards her.


	9. Hope To Ashes

Chapter Nine - Hope To Ashes

Alone in the dark passageway, Christine struggled to fasten the bodice of her dress and pulled her cloak close around her shaking body.

Her skin was still burning from his kiss and his touch, yet he had so coldly pulled her from his bed and ordered her to leave. To leave him once again.

That night when he'd sent her away with Raoul, she'd felt as if her heart had died. Now, it seemed as if her soul would die, too.

At least she'd had Raoul, then. Now, she could not return to him.

She had no candle and slowly felt her way along the narrow hall, her hand pressed to the cold, crumbling walls for support and guidance.

When she emerged near the chapel steps, she found Monsieur Reyer waiting for her.

She hoped the old gentleman would not notice her rumpled gown, her tangled hair.

If Reyer noticed, he said nothing of it as he took her arm and led her back up the shallow stone steps.

"Madame, your husband was here. He is looking for you."

Christine froze. Of course, Raoul would think to inquire after her at the Opera Populaire. She had so few friends in Paris...it was obvious to look for her at the theatre,

"Did you speak to him?"

"He spoke to me. But I told him I had not seen you at all. The managers assumed you had left."

"Thank you, Monsieur Reyer"

"Christine, child, it's not for me to interfere in...with whatever has happened between you and husband."

At the word _husband, _Christine's tears could no longer be held in check. Looking away from the music director, she covered her face with her hands and let herself weep.

She had gone in search of her soul's greatest need and found only bitterness, only kisses that turned hope to ashes. She wanted to run back to him, to throw herself at his feet and beg for his forgiveness. A forgiveness she was certain he was no longer capable of giving.

Now, she had nowhere to go. She could not go back to the house on the Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honore. Even if Raoul would take her back, she would not return to him.

She faced Monsieur Reyer again, not caring enough to wipe away the tears.

"Monsieur," she said in a fragile whisper, "I have no where to go. Please, help me."


	10. She Was No Longer His

Chapter Ten - She Was No Longer His

Erik let the portal slide close behind Christine...no, Madame de Chagny.

He should never have left the panel open. Tomorrow, he would close off that entrance, too.

Leaning hard against it, he couldn't bear knowing that she was there...just within his reach. Just beyond his reach.

He had only to open it, to call to her, to draw her back to him.

He yanked the velvet curtain down and went back to his place at the organ. The ink was still damp on the page. He'd written the melody while she slept there in his bed...before she'd awakened, before the storm of desire caught them full-force.

He tore the paper in half and held the pieces to a candle's flame. If only he could burn away what was left of his soul. Only then could he ever forget her.

"_Damn you, Christine_," he screamed over and over, _"Damn you..."_

He slumped down on bed. He could still feel the heat of the passion that had almost been. The warmth of her, the unfamiliar scent of her perfume surrounded him.

He closed his eyes and tried to picture her there in those frenzied moments. But the image was blotted out by another one...

-

How many nights had he done it...ventured out from his sanctuary beneath the Opera House to watch over her, to see her come and go...safe and happy...a beautiful new wife.

How many times had he stood in the shadows of her garden, watching for her as she passed the windows.

Then there were the nights when his need to simply be near her drove him too far and he stood there on her balcony, knowing only the glass and the darkness separated her from him.

He knew that beyond those thin panes she lay in her husband's embrace, but he could force himself to forget what he did not see.

Until one night...one night when the summer moon's light illuminated the room within and he saw her entangled in the Vicomte's arms. Her eyes were closed, her thin white dress twisted around her body...

She was no longer his, she was no longer the wandering innocent that he loved past the edge of sanity.

_She was Madame de Chagny. _

_-_

"_Damn you,"_ he screamed again, his hands twisting into the scarlet cushions, his shirt and robe soaked with swear.

But even as he let himself fall into a feverish sleep, he knew he would not seal the door against her...


	11. Only One Thing

**Sorry about the delay in updating. I lost my first draft of this chapter and the next one. Plus, I have been swamped with work. At any rate, here is the latest chapter. Enjoy...**

* * *

Chapter Eleven - Only One Thing

Christine lay in a narrow bed in a tiny, windowless room above the ballet dormitories. It was a dreary little cubbyhole, high in the wing of the Opera House that had been spared the worst of the fire.

Grim as it was with its dusty iron bed and dingy gray walls, it was a temporary haven for Christine. Monsieur Reyer had apologized for not finding her a better refuge, but Christine was thankful for this place.

She closed her eyes and pressed her face against the bare mattress, trying to hold back her tears.

She had thrown aside all she had - her husband, her title and hard-won position in his social circle, her home - to find her Angel, to beg for his forgiveness and his love.

It would be so easy to die. Outside her room, a low door led out onto the Opera roof. It would be so easy...they would find her broken body in the street. The papers would fill with gossip. Raoul would mourn for her...

As she let despair push her mind into a numbing sleep, only one thing drove away the thoughts of suicide.

Alone in his own room in the opera house, M. Reyer sighed and looked over the score for the Opera's next production.

Tired as he was, he found it easier to sort through the pages than to sleep. He didn't want to admit it, nor did he want to become too deeply involved, but he was worried about Christine.

Poor girl. He could still remember her unexpected debut, a shy girl transforming into a radiant singer with the most exquisite voice he had ever heard.

A hand was suddenly laid heavily on the music in front of him.

He looked up and saw the Opera Ghost standing there. M. Reyer saw that he was dressed, not in the immaculate suits that he'd favored before the chandelier incident, but in a rumpled velvet robe over an equally wrinkled shirt and trousers.

"Where is she, Jerome?"

The Phantom's voice was sharp-edged with anger, but M. Reyer was now used to that temper.

"I assume you mean Christine? I don't think I have any right to tell you."

His visitor swept the scores off the table. Placing both hands on the scarred wooden top, he leaned towards Reyer.

"You thought you had the right to tell her how to find me. Now, tell me, Jerome, where the hell is she?"

"What makes you think I know? What makes you think she is still here? For all you know, she is at home with her lawful husband."

The Opera Ghost's eyes darkened with rage at those last words, but his voice was like ice...clear and cold.

"I will find her, sir, if it means tearing this damned theatre apart. And, if I am forced to do that, there will little left to rebuild. I ask you to make this easier for all concerned. Why the hell is she?"

Christine's sleep grew more restless, even as it grew deeper. She twisted on the bed, fighting to keep from dreaming. Clutched in her hand was the handkerchief stained with the blood from her Angel's hand.

A shadow fell across her, darker than the black dress that tangled around her tense body.

The Opera Ghost leaned over the bed, not even daring to breath for fear of awakening her.

He reached out and let his hand skim gently along the contour of her face and throat. Not touching her, yet close enough to feel the warmth of her skin, to imagine its sweet softness against his fingertips.

Slowly, he knelt beside the bed and watched her tortured sleep.


	12. An Unfamiliar Peace

Chapter Twelve - An Unfamiliar Peace

Christine cried out in her sleep, her body coiled against the worn mattress, sweat sparkling across her forehead.

On his knees at her side, the Phantom tried to close his mind to her sobs. If she called for Raoul, he did not want to hear it. If she called for him, he wanted to force himself to hate her...to keep hating the scheming girl who torn away his mask, laid bare his weakness and pain before the world.

But she did not call for her husband or for her lost Angel. Her cries were wordless sobs that tore into his heart more than he thought possible.

Laying one hand on her tear-stained cheek, he gently uncurled her fingers from the bloody handkerchief and laced his long fingers with hers.

"Hush, Christine, I am your Angel...I am here," he whispered.

* * *

Ever so slowly, the edges of nightmares faded from Christine's mind. As dawn paled the sky above the Opera House, her body relaxed and she felt an unfamiliar peace take hold of her.

Damning his own weakness, the Phantom cradled her in his arms, let her head rest easily against his shoulder.

Awake, she might betray him a thousand times. She could not lie to him in sleep. Then, at least, he could believe that she was still his innocent.

* * *

Christine awoke, shifting carefully on the creaking bed.

There had been a night filled with fear, a fear that have given way to a dream. Her Angel took her in his arms and held her close, laid his face against hers.

She wanted so desperately to believe that such a thing could still be. Then she remembered the previous night...the bitterness of his anger, the hate that had driven those moments of passion between them.

A small covered tray stood on the table by the door. Lifting the lid, she found two rolls and a cup of coffee. It was still hot, trails of steams dancing up from it.

Reyer must have brought it just before she'd opened her eyes.

She smiled a little at that welcome site. She had not eaten since the previous morning and she could never remember being more ravenous.

As she dipped the last piece of the bread into the coffee, there was a knock at the door.

"Come in," she answered, setting the cup down on the tray.

It was, as she expected, Reyer.

"Thank you for bringing me breakfast," she said, trying in vain to smooth the wrinkles from her black dress.

"Breakfast? But I didn't. I was just coming to ask you if you wanted me to bring you anything from the commissary."

As Christine stared at the amber crumbs that remained on the white tray, she realized that her handkerchief was gone...the bit of bloodstained white linen and lace that she'd clung to throughout the night was gone.

"Then he knows I am here," Christine whispered, her voice breaking with hope.


	13. A Lie To Pledge

Chapter Thirteen - A Lie To Pledge

Christine could not have imagined how long a single day could be. She spent it alone, not daring to venture out of the little gray room for fear someone might recognize her.

She did what she could to smooth away some of the wrinkles from her dress and tidied her hair as best she could before a small, cracked mirror.

She did not dare venture out of the room. If someone should see and recognize her, Raoul would learn where she was.

Even knowing that her Angel...she still thought of him as her Angel, despite his bitter words...was there in the depths of the Opera House could not totally relieve the dull weight of the loneliness that settled over her as morning turned to afternoon.

In the early afternoon, Monsieur Reyer brought her some food from the commissary and several newspapers.

"The gendarmes were here this morning, Christine."

"Sooner or later, my dear girl, your husband will need to know that you are safe."

Christine nodded. She did not mean to hide forever.

"But not yet, Monsieur. Not yet."

When Reyer left, Christine glanced over the newspapers. All of them were filled with stories of her sudden disappearance.

_She was last seen by her maid...searchers were scouring Paris...no reports of a body matching her description...Jerome Reyer told the gendarmes that he had personally seen the missing lady leave the Opera Populaire...Vicomte de Chagny said to be devastated...was the lady abducted...always wore black...despite the strange scandal surrounding her brief career at the Opera...no rumors of indiscrete conduct..._

Christine set the papers aside. How the society gossips must be enjoying this even as they shook their heads in sympathy for her husband.

No, she did not think of him as her husband. She had wronged him, too, when she spoke those wedding vows...it had been a lie pledge to him a life and a love that already belonged to another.

* * *

Wearily, Raoul sat down on the edge of his wife's bed.

_Where was she...what had happened?_

He idly turned her note over and over in his hands.

Even now, gendarmes continued to seek her, searching the Bois, the Seine, the cemetery where her father lay within his stone tomb...

He had personally spoken to Reyer, the last person to see her. The old maestro was known for his unfailing honesty and had always been very fond of Christine.

"I hope no harm has come to your wife...I spoke to her in the grand foyer, Monsieur. She was just going home, she said. I offered to order a carriage for her, but she smiled and said she'd prefer to walk."

Where the hell was she?

He heard a soft cough and looked up to see his housekeeper, Madame Brault, standing at the foot of the bed.

"Monsieur, there is something I ought to tell you. About Madame. I assumed she had already informed you."


	14. Let Me Hate You

Chapter Fourteen - Let Me Hate You

A single candle...its wick poorly trimmed, its flame long and twisting...lit the chamber.

He sat at the organ, his mask lay on the floor beside him. He tried to play to keep himself from remembering her pain.

Strange that single moment of her sorrow could ravage him more than a lifetime of his own sufferings.

It had been so tempting to wake her gently, to lift her in his arms and bring her back here with him...to keep her safe in his arms.

_Why should I?_

He did not play, only ran his fingers absently across the keys.

The smooth ivory was no substitute for the softness of her skin. He closed the keyboard cover and reached up to touch the monstrosity of his face.

Even he recoiled at the feel of it.

He reached into his pocket and drew out the blood-stained handkerchief.

_Make me hate you again, Christine. Please, let me hate you...don't take that final refuge from me._

* * *

Darkness and silence came over the Opera Populaire. It was a chilly night and Monsieur Reyer brought Christine a blanket and a pillow, borrowed from the dormitories.

Christine settled into the chair beside the bed and wrapped herself in the blanket. She would not let herself sleep, praying that her Angel would come to her again.

He found her asleep in the chair. Her face rested against the cool plaster of the wall, the blanket had slipped from her lap.

_So, you were waiting for me, Christine...so certain that I would come, damn you._

Leaning over her, he kissed her so gently...so gently that she did not awaken.

* * *

Christine awakened slowly. There was no clock in her room, but she could hear sounds in the Opera House...the usual bustle of the morning.

Her body ached from spending the night in the hard wooden chair.

She had not meant to fall asleep...she had meant to wait for him.

She rose and the blanket fell to her feet. It was not the faded blue wool that Monsieur Reyer had brought her.

Picking it up, she recognized the scarlet velvet coverlet from _his _bed.

* * *

The clock in the study chimed eight times as Raoul stared out of the window.

The heavy rain that obscured his view only increased the new sense of loss that Madame Brault's admission brought him.


	15. Women Do Vanish

Chapter 15 - Women Do Vanish

Christine folded the velvet blanket and laid it on the bed. On the table by the door, the tray was there with the coffee and brioche.

_Why is he doing these little things for me...he rejects me, yet he looks after me._

She would not wait for him again. Tonight, she would go back to him.

"And," she said aloud, "if he turns me away again, what will become of us?"

* * *

Raoul leaned across the desk, frowning at the policeman who sat opposite him.

"How can you tell me there is no sign of my wife? A woman cannot vanish like that!"

"Pardon me, Monsieur, women do vanish. Your wife is one of many such cases. But the events surrounding your wife's...er...final performance are rather strange. And no one can corroborate this Reyer's story. My men will search the Opera Populaire later today."

* * *

Erik stared into the mirror as he carefully knotted his cravat, forcing himself to look at his face.

No woman, no one could be so depraved as to love him, he mused as he pierced the silk with a golden pin. He could not remember when or where he had stolen it.

Only when he had finished dressing did he address his visitor.

"What do you want, Jerome?"

"There are gendarmes in Firmin's office. They mean to search for Madame de Chagny."

He turned on the older man.

"Have you warned her," he demanded furiously.

Reyer shook his head.

"Not yet. After all, I know of no other place to hide here...except with you."

"Have you considered, Jerome," he snarled, "that I might prefer it if they did find her?"

Even as he spoke, he reached for his cape.

"Go about your business, Jerome. The matter is out of your hands."

* * *

Christine slowly paced back and forth in her room. She tried to deny the soft waves of dizziness that stalked her.

Monsieur Reyer had not looked in on her this morning. Was something amiss?

Reaching the end of the narrow room, she turned to retrace her steps.

And found Erik standing beside her.


	16. So Little Time

Chapter Sixteen - So Little Time

He looked at her coldly, his own features as hard and impassive as those of his mask.

"Madame, there are gendarmes searching my theatre," he said in a voice empty of all feeling, "they are looking for you."

He looked away from her as he continued, stared down at the red velvet blanket that lay neatly folded on the shabby bed.

"Perhaps you might save us all a great deal of trouble. Let them find you."

"Erik...it is too late for me to go back."

He sighed. He had anticipated her answer.

"I was afraid you would say that. Very well," he said, removing his cravat.

Smoothing the silk, he stepped behind her and laid it across her eyes.

"Erik, why are you blindfolding me?"

"Because, my dear lady, I am taking you to my..._dungeon_...by a different passage. And I would prefer it if you did not learn the way."

He finished tying the cravat over her eyes. There was so little time, but before he moved away, he let his gloved finger slowly trace the back of her neck. With his other hand, he drew her back against him.

_Oh, Christine, how can I stand to have you near me?_

Then he took her hand and led her from the room.

—

Her eyes covered by Erik's cravat, Christine clung to his hand and let him draw her through unknown corridors.

How easy it was to trust him...even if he would not trust her in return.

As he guided her down a sloping passage, Christine lost her balance and stumbled. Only Erik's swift reflexes kept her from falling.

"I'm sorry, Erik," she said in a weary voice, "it's just so hard for me to walk with my eyes covered."

She felt his hands on her waist and shoulders, then she felt herself lifted off her feet.

He bit his lip as she put her arms around him, her head resting near his heart.

_Do you know how easily I could betray you, Christine?_


	17. I Meant Nothing To Her

Chapter 17 - I Meant Nothing To Her

Erik gave Christine his hand and helped her step from the boat. He could not help but note her pale, almost green pallor as they crossed the lake. Strange, the ride was a gentle one and had never troubled her in the past.

"My hell is your sanctuary, Madame, for as long as you wish," he said, not bothering to remove his cloak.

"I have some business to attend to," he continued, "You know your way about, of course. If, as you claim, you do not wish to be found by your husband," he continued, hissing the last word as if it were a curse, "you will not attempt to leave."

Christine sank down heavily into a chair near his desk.

"Erik, thank you for helping me," she said without looking up at him.

"You will find," he said, letting his voice become poison, "that my assistance will come at a price."

He turned to leave her. But, before he drew back the curtain covering the passage, he went back to her.

"You wear black, Christine. Your parents are long since dead and the Vicomte is still among the living. For whom do you mourn?"

Her eyes met his and held his gaze.

"For you."

* * *

Erik walked slowly across the leads of the roof. Many of the statues that had been destroyed in the fire...in his fire...had not been repaired.

He sat down beneath one of the few survivors, leaning back against the base. He took off his mask, wondering that the sun itself didn't recoil in horror at the sight of his exposed face.

"I will not show her any pity," he said aloud, "whatever ruin she has made of her marriage, of her life, it means nothing to me. Nothing!"

_She mourns for me? Why? I meant nothing to her._

* * *

The police inspector looked down at the red velvet blanket and the tray with its crumbs of bread. A sticky brown residue discolored the inside of the white china cup beside it.

He turned to Monsieur Firmin, waiting for an answer.

The manager shrugged.

"A great many people live in this theatre, Inspector. It's not unusual for them to use some of the more remote rooms as, er, trysting places."

The inspector was not a man of great imagination. The idea of living within the confines of an opera house was an odd one.

Moreover, there was certainly nothing in the room to suggest that Madame de Chagny had been there.

—

When Monsieur Firmin unlocked the door to his office, he found that the large mirror that hung opposite the window has been smashed.

The Opera Ghost was evidently offended again.


	18. My Dear Lady

Alone in Erik's home, Christine sat still and waited for the lightheaded sensations to pass. When the feelings were gone, she rose and went over to the organ.

She picked up a sheet of music, smiling a little at the familiar heavy strokes of his pen. She glanced over the page, letting herself hear the music play out in her mind.

The darkness of the music stunned her. It was like an angry storm within her. What must it be like when he actually played it with all the power and subtly of his skill?

She laid it down hastily and flipped through the other pages. So much of it was like that, brutal and full of unrestrained rage, full of anger released as music.

In the midst of those pages, though, she found part of another compostion, one so different from the others.

She want to hear him play it.

Descending the stone steps to the worn work-table in the alcove, she picked up the watercolor painting of herself.

So innocent and trusting, asleep amid the red velvet.

_Why did he keep this one? Why only this one?_

Erik stood in the shadows of the entryway. He knew she had neither seen not heard his return as she set the picture down again, taking care to leave it just as she found it.

_Yes, my curious Christine, that is how I wanted to remember you. But you couldn't let me. You had to come back..._

* * *

Two women stood on the platform, waiting with quiet patience for their train.

One was a slender, handsome woman in her mid-forties. The other woman was her daughter, an angel-faced girl with honey-blonde hair and bright eyes. Both ladies shared certain marked poise as they stood close together, one in black, the other in gray.

"I shall be very glad to see Paris again," the younger woman remarked.

"So will I, ma petite, so will I."

"Please, tell me what you know," Raoul asked the physician.

* * *

Dr. Vincent Monforte shook his head with genuine sympathy at the Vicomte de Chagny. He could clearly see the effects of Christine's disappearance on the young man's face. The lad's eyes were shadowed, his smooth face settling into a haggard weariness.

"I am so sorry, but Christine did not consult with me in recent weeks. Your housekeeper's information, if true, comes as a surprise to me, I am very sorry for you, sir. Be assured that you and your wife are in my prayers. I do hope she will be restored to you soon."

* * *

"Would you care for supper, Madame?"

Christine turned to see Erik in the doorway. The casual civility of his voice surprised her.

"Yes, Erik, I am very hungry," she admitted.

"Very well, then. Go and dress for dinner. I've brought you some fresh clothing."

Christine stared down at the sad state of her dress. She was suddenly ashamed that he had to see her that way, so rumpled and shabby.

"Thank you, but I hope you didn't go to much trouble to..."

Erik cricled the desk to stand before her. He caught her arm lightly.

"I assure you, my dear lady, it was no trouble," he said, his voice taking on a cold edge as his hand slid from her elbow to her wrist, his long fingers tightening as they moved slowly.

"You told me that you wore this...mourning...for me," he continued, grasping the ruffle at the edge of her sleeve, "As long as you stay with me, you will not. I want no pity, Madame, from you or from anyone. Pity was not what I wanted from you. Now, go and change."

With that, his fingers curled around the ruffle and, with a single motion, he tore it loose. He held the strip of fabric up between them, letting it dangled before her.

"You are not a widow."

Christine looked away from him. She should be used to these lightning swift changes of mood. One moment, he was cold, another moment she could hear brutal hatred in his voice. Yet, she knew that there was tenderness there, she had felt it...ever so briefly.

A dress lay on her bed. It was a delicate frock of rose-colored silk trimmed with lace. She could not imagine a more perfect gown and tried not to considere where or how he obtained it for her. A soft white shawl lay beside it, and there was a pair of rose-colored shoes, too.

When she rejoined him, he too had changed. He wore his usual dark suit with a soft white shirt and a waistcoat of dark green that lent a mysterious light to his eyes. In his gloved hands, he held the ascot he had used to bind her eyes.

He glanced up at her with a thin smile of mockery.

"Ah, quite the aristocratic beauty, Madame de Chagny."

"Erik, why must you be so formal...why must you call me that. I am still Christine..."

He cut her off with a short, hard laugh.

"And you are still the legal wife of the Vicomte de Chagny. Now, turn around please."

He laid the ascot over her eyes and tied it quickly, blindfolding her again.

"Erik, are you taking me somewhere?"

"Yes," he said, finishing the knot and trailing his fingers along her bare collarbone, "I am taking you to dinner."


	19. Before This Night Ends

Chapter Nineteen - Before This Night Ends

Christine caught her breath as she felt Erik's hand brushing so lightly against her skin. The neckline of the rose gown was deeply cut and he let his fingers slowly trail a little lower until they met the lace trim of the bodice.

He moved away from her then and she heard the soft swish of heavy fabric, the familiar sound of his cape as he donned it.

"Come with me," he said in a low voice as he took her hand.

She followed him in total darkness, trusting him again.

He said little to her as he led her through passages and up flights of steps.

At first, he held her hand loosely, only enough to guide her. But as they went on, he moved closer, his body grazing hers from time to time in the narrower corridors and at the turnings of the stairs. And his hold on her hand tightened.

Once, it seemed Christine heard him softly say her name in a voice so hushed that it was lost amid the sound of their footsteps.

At last, he stopped and she heard a door swinging open. He drew her through it and, ever so slowly, he untied the silk blindfold.

She recognized the little room high above the ballet dormitories, the dreary haven where she had spend the past couple of nights.

Now she knew where Erik had been when he left he alone in the lair below.

Lit candles illuminated the room. The velvet coverlet was spread over the bed. Two chairs faced the bed, one on each side. A covered tray lay on the bed. On the small table, there was a vase of crimson roses.

"No doubt it's nothing compared to the fine dining rooms you and your _husband _are acquainted with, but I hope this will do for now."

"Erik, no…it's lovely," she said, smiling up at him as she took a seat by the make-shift table. Another rose lay on the bed before her chair.

He shrugged, letting the cape slide from his shoulders and tossing it aside. He came to stand over her.

"Before this night ends, Madame, I will have the truth from you," he said, gently stroking her hair.

It was a simple meal, obtained from the Opera commissary, Christine suspected. Just some bread, whisper thin slices of ham and cheese, some wine.

When they had finished the supper, Erik reached over to the end-table and produced a white dish of tiny little tarts filled with apricots and almonds.

Christine's eyes lit up like a delighted child's at the sight of those tarts. She had not had them since she left the Opera House and they had been a favorite since she was a little girl.

"Oh, Erik," she said between nibbles, "how did you know…"

"You forget, Christine, how many years I have watched you," he replied, breaking one of the tarts in half, "I know you."

_Yes, I watched you for so long, even after I sent you into the arms of that damned fop._

She let her eyes meet his for the first time since he had removed the blindfold. Suddenly, she found his gaze too compelling, too beautiful and she tried to look away.

He would not let her. He laid his palm against her cheek and, leaning forward, he kissed her.

She could feel the friction of the tiny, buttery crumbs between their lips as she tasted him, reaching up to cover his hand with her own.

_Yes, I will have the truth from you, Christine…but not yet. Oh no, not yet._

"Erik, Erik," she whispered against the corner of his mouth, "Erik, don't push me away this time."

He drew his hand away and stood up.

Then, he grabbed the edge of the velvet comforter and, with one swift pull, send the tray, the plates, and what was left of their meal crashing to the floor.

Circling the room with his eyes still on her, he extinguished the candles until only one remained lit.

Then he returned to her, catching her wrist and pulling her from her chair.

He let one hand rest on her waist, the other tangled itself in her hair.

"No, Christine, not this time. Christine, _my_ Christine."


	20. It Comes To This Moment

Chapter 20 - It Comes To This Moment

Hard, white moonlight laced down through the trees in the Bois. The Vicomte de Chagny walked alone, following a favorite path he and his young bride had often strolled.

How many days had she been gone? Strange that he was already losing count of them. Yet it was not even a week.

_Where was she now? Where had she gone when she left the Opera House? _

He stood at the junction of two lanes now, uncertain which way to turn in the darkness.

"Christine, where are you?"

A woman's voice answered him from the shadows behind.

* * *

Christine wound her arms around Erik's neck and shoulders. She heard her own voice whispering his name over and over.

Was she falling, dragging him down with her? Or was he pushing her down, sinking onto the bed with her?

As he deftly unfasted the mother-of-pearl buttons of the slik gown, she closed her eyes...suddenly remembering the way his fingers so deftly and tenderly moved across the ivory keys of the pipe organ...in those moments before the rage, before her mistake.

"Erik, Erik...please...make love to me...now."

* * *

"My name is not Christine," the voice answered and Raoul slowly turned to see who had spoken to him.

She was a beautiful woman, so different from his lovely Christine.

Her hair and voice were both as soft and rich as honey. He noticed that her dress was blue, deepened to a inky hue by the night.

"Good evening, Monsieur," she said, resting her ungloved hand on his arm.

She smiled at him. Her eyes were tired, but her lips seemed so kindly.

"Who is this Christine you were calling for? Is someone lost?"

Raoul stared down at her hand. She wore no rings, no wedding band. Her hand was so light against the dark fabric of his coat.

"Christine is my wife," he said, trying not to think of the note she had left him.

_Those vows were a lie. When I spoke them...I betrayed all of us. I betrayed you with a false promise, I betrayed my poor Angel, and I betrayed myself. Forgive me, Raoul, I was never truly your wife...forgive me..._

* * *

In that small, dusty room, Erik found himself suddenly so aware of the sounds around him.

The hiss of that one candle, the whisper of Christine's silk gown against his own clothes, the subtle creak of the bed beneath them, his own heartbeat, her voice pleading with him...pleading_ for _him.

He looked down at her. Her eyes were closed, her hair tumbled reckless across the shabby pillow, the bodice of her gown half opened.

_So it comes to this...every moment of anger, of hate, of loneliness...it comes to this moment._

* * *

The woman did not move, her hand remained on Raoul's arm. Nor did her smile fade.

"Ah, then you must be the Vicomte de Chagny."

Now her hand slid along his arm until her hand lay against his. She moved closer to him and he could smell her perfume. It was cheap, but intoxicating.

"My poor boy," she said with a low laugh.

* * *

Christine reached up and took Erik's face in her hands. One palm rested against his warm cheek, the other other against the cool smooth mask. 


	21. That GrayGreen Storm

Chapter 21 - That Gray-Green Storm

Erik gently pushed Christine's hand from his mask. But she was not deterred.

She reached up and laid her soft palms against his neck, feeling his pulse beneath the heat of his skin.

"Erik, I promise you," she whispered, "I promise I will not leave you again."

As her hands slipped down beneath the open collar of his shirt, he closed his eyes, wanting to believe those sweet words, to let his soul trust her.

Then her hands slowly retraced their way up his neck to his face. Her fingers wandered along the edge of his mask.

But he caught her wrist and drew her hand away again.

"No, Christine, not tonight…allow me this sanctuary…please."

* * *

Raoul stared at the hand that lay within his own. Cautiously, he let his fingers curl around hers.

"How do you know my name, Madame?"

"Oh," she said, with a careless shrug that allowed her shawl to drop from her shoulders, "I daresay all of Paris is talking about you. You must be very lonely without your pretty wife."

* * *

The hand that encircled her wrist was trembling.

_He is afraid…but how could it be otherwise…what has he know of life…_

Easing herself up from the pillows,Christine pulled the cufflinks from his shirt and slipped her hands beneath his sleeves.

* * *

He took a deep breath and parted his lips to speak, but she silenced him with her own lips.

Raoul watched the woman's eyes as she looked with raw admiration around the foyer of the de Chagny residence.

In the light of the hall, he could see a certain harshness to her skin, a thinness of the lips that flawed her beauty.

He saw her gaze sweeping slowly over the polished wood, the intricately carved banister as he led her up the stairs to his rooms.

* * *

Pushing the white shirt off Erik's shoulders. Christine's fingers found the scars…and she traced them lightly. First with her hands, then with her lips.

Strange how her touch on those scars awakened no memories in him, rather it seemed as if she was erasing each lash with her tender caresses.

* * *

"May I get you a drink," Raoul asked the woman, lingering over the cut-glass decanters.

"A cognac, Monsiuer."

He handed her the glass, but avoided meeting her gaze.

"You've a fine house, Monsieur."

He didn't answer her, but set his own glass down on the polished table beside the bed.

"Christine," he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed and laying his hands on the woman's hips, "Christine, don't leave me."

* * *

Letting Erik's shirt fall to the dusty floor, Christine leaned back against the pillow again and let her eyes meet his.

_I want to loose my soul in that gray-green storm_…

* * *

The woman reached up and pulled the chipped tortoise comb from her hair.

"My name," she said, shaking the deep gold locks loose, "is Mariette."

"No, not tonight…tonight, your name will be Christine."


End file.
